


HITMAN DOWN

by beckk



Category: Generation Kill, Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Minor Character Death, More characters and tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 00:44:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1920294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckk/pseuds/beckk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In war, there are boys, men, and people who pilot giant fighting robots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> character list found here : http://barrykramer.co.vu/post/91081941731
> 
> I strongly suggest reading that before reading the fic. it'll help. 
> 
> I'll be adding characters and tags as this progresses. unbeta'd. god knows how long this is going to get, but it's following movie canon so that should give you a good idea. 
> 
> this was started as a challenge from a friend to write a pacrim au for an under appreciated pairing and kind of spiraled out of control. enjoy.

The world tastes like sea salt. He's not sure why, not really, because last he checked they hadn't had to suit up in a week. It's a blissful reprieve, and with perfect timing, too. There are a lot of things that are perfect, now that he thinks about it - a bob of brown hair, carefully pinned up and into place, is one of them. He'd not seen it in anything but a ponytail for months now, and just the thought of it sends a smile curling across his lips, stretched taut for all the world to see. The world, however, isn't looking; they've other things to deal with, like the kaiju attacks and rebuilding. So instead, the only ones available to view it are the few Shatterdome staff willing to step out for the occasion. Only about half of them even had time to change out of work clothes- the mass standing before him are oil slick and smudged with determination as they all turn to face her. 

She's smiling despite all the shit that's piled up, smiling for him just as he smiles for her. Someone wolf whistles, but the sound is distant to the sloshing of waves. There are no waves here, no water - she's smiling wider, the carefully kept green uniform of the Godfather wrapped round the white of the dress dragging his gaze away from her and into Ferrando's eyes. They nod, once, and then it's all Madeline, soft angles and careful smiles and love, love, _so_ much love. The bounce back of the handshake reminds him of it even as it's not connected, not poured through metal tubing to power the jaeger. Something itches at the thought of it, hot and heady and filling all the empty, tired places in his mind. So he keeps smiling, lips aching at the prospect of it but never breaking. Not until she's standing before him, expression vivid beneath the tears. 

Her eyes are red rimmed, pupils blown in a painful reminder of blood and sweat and tears, but all he sees is the happy woman he is to marry, and there's smiles all around. Her face breaks into a soft smile, relieved, but he's still caught on that smile, on the way she'd whispered something to him that he'd never had the balls to ask about, voice drowned out by the priest speaking up. She tries again, lips parting and a husky voice attempting to rise up past the sound of waves, of the screeching in his head that rips like metal beneath kaiju teeth. But he blinks, once, and the sound disappears, her concerned voice with it. The priest drones on, the ceremony punctuated at appropriate times. She doesn't try to whisper to him again, though it feels as though she hadn't even tried, past that point. Not really. 

His vows are short, spoken through with appropriate smiles at all the right parts. He'd spent hours, hidden away in their room when she was off working out, carefully poring over the ones he'd written and promising himself that he wouldn't fuck it up, wouldn't embarrass her. The last syllables die on his lips, careful but tasting sharp and tacky, but she smiles all the same, this raggedly pleased thing like maybe he'd just promised her the world. (He had.) She goes to speak, blinking down as if to remember the vows she'd prepared. 

"Shawn, I -" 

Words drone in his head, overlaying with what he can only describe as radio static. It buzzes and fills and consumes, the world betraying him for a moment. He forces himself to ignore this headache - it had to just be a headache, but why now? - and focus in on Madeline, but all he can hear is nothing but everything and then _there_ , there she is. 

" - to have and to hold, with all my heart. To protect and to - "

His smile returns, and her expression grows despondent, lips moving but voice coming out at a completely different manner. Her body shifts as if she's screaming, and there are tears in his eyes, probably, because the vows are just as perfect as expected, ten times better than his own. She'd always been the more egotistical of the two, true, but everything she says is soft and kind and he can't even imagine living without her, without the constant lull of her heart in time with his, her step landing just as his did, her mind processing and coming to the same conclusion, same time as his. And then she finishes and the whole crowd is at it, people he'd never seen crack a smile offering up one as he sweeps a gaze over crackling wires and broken framework, searching, wondering, rain beating down hard and body aching and - 

Madeline speaks up, sharp and sounding all kinds of wrong, like maybe she's been screaming for hours or maybe she's not actually saying what she's saying, but the 'I do' filters through to him and the smiles back, soft and exhausted but she's there, and he is, and that's fine enough. Nobody has to notice that he's crying, though he's sure they'll never let him forget about it, and it's all he can do to get the salt water out of his mouth as he says "I do," as if he hadn't waited a solid minute and Maddie hadn't made that silly little frown at him, the one she only kept for when he displeased her. 

Even when she was angry at him, she was gorgeous. 

There's a thunderous clap, as if metal buckled beneath the sheer force of the crowd cheering for him, and she's kissing him - not new but never old, either, his lips pressing in despite being curved into a smile. She laughs into his mouth, a short burst and he can't help but laugh back, pulling away to look out over his friends and coworkers and 

And the world is white, kind of, except there's the sensation of it being too hot, too closed in and terrifying. Fingers scrabble at the controls, wires ripping and suit clunking angrily against the wall of the conn-pod as he rushes, memories sticky like molasses in his head as he struggles harder, a scream in the back of his head just as he'd gone to say "Think they'll let us skip the festivities?" to her in the moment it had taken to hug her tight and usher her down the aisle. The white starts to dissipate, like maybe it's just fog and maybe these aren't angry tears in his eyes, ripe with unspoken terror as suddenly his feet are free from their latches, body lurching forward and away from the memories of suits and dresses and smiling and rings. 

He can feel the world closing in on him, like a far off echo of things he used to feel and things he used to say. 

"Son, are you alright?" 

There's someone there but he can't quite remember why he should care, like there's a part of him that should have responded, done something to assure him, but it's not here and. And he's processing and breaking it down and the words start making sense and he's crying, again. There's no joy as he crumples before the man, the feeling of her wedding dress sliding off his hands the reminder that no, something was wrong. Something was so wrong and the man is shouting at someone to go get help, to go find someone, and it's jarring in a way that her voice should have been, when she'd doubled over and bled out in front of him and all he had done was _smile_. 

He doesn't scream, but it's a near thing. The world burns out and his gaze crawls skyward. She would have screamed, for him. 


	2. Chapter 2

If Ferrando were a lesser man, perhaps he would believe in the concept of cutting the tension with a knife, or feeling the vivid anger in the air. But he can't, frankly- doesn't understand the possibility and frankly doesn't _care_. The voice that drags him to the present is an entirely unwelcome one, despite his having spent the last four days endlessly discussing details with its owner. 

The entirety of the United Nations' board of directors swept out before him, monitors looming over him in a way that allowed for an unfair disadvantage. He did _not_ appreciate being looked down upon. The grimace that had begun to seep through his carefully kept walls is shoved back again, military bearing kept despite the fact that none of these men or women had ever served, had ever had someone in their mind. They knew nothing of sacrifice, yet they sought to make it.

"Marshall, I'm sorry, but for the last time, we have to cut funding."

It's true, but he hates them ever still. He can just barely make out Gunny's grimace beside him, lips puckering low in a heated display of disgust. He'll have to make a point of calling Wynn out on it, once they were off air. But for now, his attentions are caught up in greater manners. 

"Sir, with all do respect, if you could just allow for _one more push_ -"

He pushes all the emphasis he can into those three words, even if he's cut off short from finishing the sentence. It's a tried and true statement, his intent clear to both the American ambassador the he was speaking to, and to all the others sitting before him. They'd heard it a thousand times in the past days, each attempt slightly more desperate, slightly less respectable. If the world weren't at stake, perhaps he'd be more bitter about having to grovel before them. The reply comes in careful staccato, sharp like a whip and tearing the words from his lips. 

"That's not a viable option, Marshall Ferrando. We can't afford to fund a program that no longer _works_. The wall is the last hope in this matter. I'm sure you understand"

"I'm sure all those men an' women who died understand." 

The voice rises like smoke, whispered under the breath and not meant for anyone to hear, but Ferrando can hear it all the same. Wynn stiffens at his side, the only sign that he heard the same, but aside from that one remark, Stafford falls into a displeased silence. It is the first time he has rightfully spoken since he had been called in for the meeting, and it is no doubt only the start of a rant. 

"You have eight months, Marshall. Eight months to pool the last of your resources to the Hong Kong Shatterdome. And then the money runs out. Make it count."

"So be it." 

He snaps out as a reply, just in time for the connections to begin breaking out. It takes mere moments for the last face to disappear, and the Marshall visibly sags for but a moment. He turns to the men behind him, glare the after effect of what he had heard as it swept across Stafford and Wynn's faces. It takes but a moment for Q-Tip to speak up, lips curling in a look of great disgust.

"This is _bullshit_ , Marshall. They can't just - "

"They can, Stafford. And they just did." 

He has no time for babying the man, no matter how young he seems compared to he and Wynn. Gunny's lips purse as Ferrando blinks across at him, expression neutral as there comes the realization that there's a sluggish set to his step, to the furrowing of a brow. A sigh puffs angrily from between thin lips, head nodding Wynn on to speak. 

"What now, sir? We just going to lay down and let them fuck us all over?"

It elicits an incredulous bark of laughter, short and pained and drowning away in just the same amount of time as it had arisen. Gunny levels him with a look, Q-Tip's eyes narrowing in just the same regard. Laughter was irreverent, when people were dying. He returns their gazes easily, expression sparking forth as fierce for but a moment. 

"Nonsense. Now, we prepare as best we can."


	3. Chapter 3

"So then, y'know, I fuckin' tell 'er. _Y'know_ , 'bout me an' the hussy."

"Oh, yeah? And what'd she have to say to _that_?"

"She said somethin' 'bout how proud she was of me for -"

He separates from the two men walking behind him easily enough. Sliding through the rush of men heading within the construction site, and away. He didn't care, didn't particularly want to. Humanity was easy to ignore when you were working in the darker corners of Alaska. Stika wasn't exactly far out in the wilds, not really. But it was far enough away from the 'dome that he didn't have to stare his own shortcomings in the face, didn't have to think about anything but the cold steel under his fingers, the sharp prick of sparks flying from his welding tool. 

They crowd in tight around the pile of rubble, where the supervisor is only just now picking his way to the top. It is a pulpit with uglier connotations than government failure; it brings death, but it brings work. Very little of what the man has to say will ever be good. They know this, yet still, they crowd in, hungry. 

"Alright, gentleman, listen up!"

It is a rallying cry and they are the cannon fodder before it. Pappy stirs, once, as someone presses into his side and vanishes once more. He knows already what the foreman will bring, knows too that he is poised to take a chance. One would think him leery of chances, after what has come to be. But he is tired of going hungry; if he shall suffer, he shall do so wholly sated and aware only of his pain. The crowds fluctuate between silence and brash whispers, but the noise dies down all the same. Men shout from the highest marks, already taking up their places. Words drown out behind the burn of a thousand torches, and he refocuses once more on the man atop the rubble.

"I've got good news, and bad news. Which do you want to hear first?"

The words prompt a reaction, groups of men bursting out into frantic whispers, disinterested shouts. He blinks dolefully up at the man, shifting within the minuscule space provided by his peers. Pleasantries had no place in a place like this, far removed from comfort. It took nothing but rage and muscle to function here, a blissful reprieve from thought. If you daydreamed, you died. Necessity brooked no arguments, and Pappy knew that. Had sought it out for reasons more personal than he'd care to admit.

"Bad news!" 

Someone hollers out from his nine, cupping a hand round his mouth to be heard over all the commotion. The foreman smiles, a tired yet vicious thing. There is a cruel humor to be found, here, and he expects his men to find it as such. You had to be a certain kind of sick, to work on the Anti-Kaiju Wall. A hand comes to rest on his sweat-soaked chest, the biting cold of Alaska doing nothing to stop the slow creep of the stain. 

"Three men died yesterday, up on top of the wall"

The whispering comes to a halt, everyone stilling in an unspoken call for regret for the men. Casualties came on the daily; the jaeger pilots fought their wars, the workers upon the wall their own. Nobody's reverent, not out here. But they know full well what this whole thing means, what they're all dying for. Survival does tricky things, to both the selfish and the selfless. 

"Good news?"

Someone finally calls out, far off near the back. The stirring of men coming back to life fills Pappy's ears, reminds him that he's still living, still breathing. He blinks away tears, expression abysmal as the supervisor above them pulls out three ration cards, flashing red and vibrant in the early light of the day. 

"I got three new job opening. C'mon, fellas, who wants to eat?"

He pulls a smile behind the spread thin veil of the cards, eyebrows banking high into his hardhat and disappearing from view. 

-

They're crowded round the tv, staring and shouting in rage, when the helicopters come in. There's a reminiscent hopelessness that he'd seen growing up, when the kaiju had first started coming and the world had seemed defenseless. Before the jaegers. The Australian press are crowding round the pilots, the younger's voice droning on about ten kills, and how lucky everyone was that they hadn't shipped out for Hong Kong yet, and - and he doesn't listen. Shuts out all reminders of his life prior to the wall, and turns to great the PPDC helicopters.

He does not puke, though God knows he wants to. 

"Mister Patrick!"

Ferrando leans out of the bay door, greeting Pappy with a fierce, inquiring look. It's not misplaced, he knows that much; he doesn't look the young pilot he once was, worn down by the winds from up above the wall and the constant sparks of the blow torches. But Godfather is still Godfather, tight kept appearances and billowing coat. He steps out onto the snow, ignoring the blatant looks of disbelief from the amassing group of men, and focuses in on Pappy. 

"Marshall. Good to see you."

He tacks on the pleasantries as an afterthought, eyes still narrowed against the kick up of the helicopter, expression dutifully suspicious. He'll play along, for the moment, but he can already tell what Godfather wants won't be easy to give. Is _impossible_ to give, if he's a say in the matter. They step off on the same foot, old disciplines straightening his back and pushing his arms to his sides as they walk away from the crowds, the hungry eyes. 

"Here, why don't I show you to my office."

It's an empty joke, made as an empty gesture, but he can tell it's got the Marshall's gears turning. That assessing gaze from years ago has come back, almost predatory as Ferrando watches him. If Pappy still had reason to be afraid, he damn well would be. 

"How long has it been, Patrick?" 

There are no kindnesses in the Marshall's tone, the obvious challenge biting at his flesh and dragging his head away, breaking their eye contact for a moment. He has to think of it, in a round about way. The answer comes easily enough, but he won't be giving into Godfather's games, not today. Hopefully never again, really. Finally, he returns to matching the Marshall's stare, tongue wetting cracked lips as he does so.

"Five years, four months, sir. Maybe ten, twenty days?"

It's sixteen, for the record.

There's an uncomfortable pause, some great woman-shaped hole sucking up the warmth of the world between them. Pappy hates him, in that moment, a seething thing that crawls forward and seizes control of him for the moment. He fights to slacken his jaw, muscles working to constrict in painful measures. 

"Why're you here, Marshall?"

It's an easy enough question, though he dreads it ever still. Godfather gives him a look, speaking in ways that he is incapable of. The Marshall does not offer comfort, does not lower himself to his pilots' levels. He is either inept or inarticulate in these aspects, but never could Pappy begrudge him for it. Every man had his hold ups- he certainly had his own. The Marshall nods, once, as Pappy leans against rubble, resting sore feet and aching back. 

"The last six months, I've been working on activating everything I can get my hands on. There's an old jaeger, mark three, but it needs a pilot."

Something akin to blatant hope rests there, in Ferrando's words. Pappy frowns, a sharp intake of breath, thinking of it. Of her. He focuses in on the alternative, on the selfish little part of himself that seeks to throw the attention elsewhere. Back onto the marshall, as far away from the thought of his piloting career as is possible.

"I'm guessing I wasn't your first choice"

There, that'll do it. His voice betrays no bitterness, no tiny man hiding behind big words. He spits it out and lays it there for the Godfather to do with as he sees fit. But it's a true enough sort of statement, founded on the inkling that this is a last ditch effort. The Marshall was no easy man to summon up- it had taken five years, after all, just to bring him out here. 

"You were my first choice. My _only_ choice. All the other mark three pilots are dead."

A sweep of the arm, brows rising as he turned his gaze to the wall behind them. The Marshall still stands before him, not quite at attention, and awaits his reply. There's quite a lot to say, but he can't find the strength to express them. The Marshall would had heard them all, already. Would have known what he'd say before he even opened his mouth. 

"Look. I can't have anyone else in my head, again. -  I'm done. I was still connected to my wife when she died."

There's something kind of broken, as he speaks, a great death rattle in his chest as he wheezes for breath. He still can't look at Ferrando, even as he says it, fingers worrying at his belt, at the clothes that sit ragged and dirty on his gaunt frame, at the very _idea_ of returning to the program. When they'd discharged him, they made it clear he wasn't returning. That he wasn't the right stuff. That he hadn't handled dying quite as well as some of the others. Like the Marshall. He bites hard at a lip, torn between the great wonder of connecting to someone so intimately again, and at the ragged edges where Madeline once sat, in his head. The Marshall stares angrily down at him, and he can do nothing but shrug minutely in response. 

"I can't go through that again. I'm sorry."

Pappy rises, hands shoved deep into his pocket and back bowed. That gaze still cuts, and he's quick to step away, disengage, scurry as fast as he can toward the bar and any chance of forgetting that Godfather was ever even here. He's caught short, however, by the Marshall calling his name, drawing his attention away from running and back to the man. He blinks once, a short agreement to continue on, and stops in his mad dash for the exit. The Marshall smiles, sudden and knowing, and his stomach drops out from within. He knows that smile. He knows what that smile _means_. Hook, line, and sinker. 

"Haven't you heard, Mister Patrick? The _world_ is coming to an end. So where would you rather die? Here, or in a _jaeger_?"

_Well_. When he put it like _that_.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will have actual characters being actually introduced. I know, I'm excited too.


End file.
